Where to look

Shouting obscenities into the morning dew and giggling at the echoes…The purity of drunken Russian laughter woke me. Feeling like something belongs on paper, I poked powder into the coffee pot and took to the keys. A Tchaikovskovian bout of thunder hit the murder of men on the bawdy benches below. Under the piles of rain to come, they were washed away. Washed out. A reflective weekend in light of affairs gone by, it’s Monday and on we go. Toward the light, right? Up, up, and away, and all that crap. Tomorrow is another day to get drunk until 9am and swear at fate, chuckling like you’re signing budgets on the benches of the Duma.